


Revelations

by we_could_be_heroes



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Humor, First Time, M/M, TW for your usual Victorian homophobia and gender stereotypes, WIP, Watson/Mary briefly, Watson/others but not memorable, complicated relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:03:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3625905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_could_be_heroes/pseuds/we_could_be_heroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson has been observing Holmes for almost a year and finally, he's forced to come clean. UNFINISHED so read at your own risk of being disappointed in me as an author :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Watson!” came the familiar shout of my companion and I jerked upright in my chair. I had been bent for some hours over the most private of writings, almost spilling the ink all across it in my surprise. It was well past midnight, our daily ritual by the fire long finished and we had bid each other good night and retired to our bedrooms.

I was still dressed presentably enough for most any visitor and so, with protesting cracks of my spine, I straightened up my back and smoothing down my waistcoat and hoping the redness in my face was just my imagination, I descended the carpeted flight of stairs to our drawing room. There, I found Holmes in his dressing gown and, to my astonishment, an unmistakably female figure seated in the armchair reserved for our guests.

“Well, good evening, Madam!” I called out, struggling to keep my voice neutral. What decent woman paid visits to a bachelor household at such an hour? Either she was considerably free in her manners or considerably desperate.

Holmes said: “Miss Seville, this is my friend and associate Dr. Watson - Watson, Miss Virginia Seville. Now,” he continued, pulling up a chair and gesturing for me to do the same, “to what do we owe this pleasure?”

The frown that passed across Virginia Seville's face when I came into her view was impossible to miss. She ignored the introductions and my person altogether and instead addressed Holmes: “Mr. Holmes, I come in utmost urgency and under the impression you can provide complete discreetness. Is the presence of your ... associate truly necessary?”

At that time, it had been barely a year that I had lived with Holmes. Although I had already begun to take notes on some of his more interesting cases, I had not yet published any of them and it was not unusual that many of his clients objected to my presence. Still, I was rather affronted by this late night intruder's tone and the way she completely blocked me out.

I would be lying, however, if I said that was all there was to it. There was something else about her that offended me, a certain firmness of the voice and lack of feminine grace that radiated from her. She had a wide, plain face and was dressed according to the standards of current fashion, but while her waist was laced tight and her body held in a model upright position, there was an unmistakable air of masculine sparseness and directness in her attitude and motions.

Meanwhile, Holmes recited the commonplace assurance of my reliability, discretion et cetera et cetera, and she finally deigned to give me a measured look and acquiesced to my staying in the room.

“You have traveled by a late train to London? And it was delayed?” Holmes asked her and she confirmed his inference.

“I was delayed by my mother, too. We had quite an altercation on the platform, to the point that I missed the first train,” she added. “But that is not why I'm here.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“I have received the most disturbing letter from my fiancé,” she said.

“Disturbing in what manner?”

“In every manner possible, Mr. Holmes.” She held the item in question in her hands, not in a nervous clutch, but resignedly, as if the thin paper was made of the heaviest lead, a cumbersome burden she was tasked to guard. “First of all,” she sighed, and again the sigh was not what I would expect it to be, not a lady's gentle exhalation of sorrow, but rather an angry huff, “my fiancé accuses me of having a very ... outrageous affair.”

“And secondly?” Holmes asked.

“And secondly, my fiancé has been dead for two years.”

I would have thought it like Holmes to ascertain the truthfulness of the accusations first, but he chose not to ask about the affair. Anyone could guess the letter might be a fabrication – a deliberate imitation of the late fiancé's writing, likely intended to add a more dramatic flair to what was shaping up to be a case of blackmail. I supposed Holmes wanted to simply start at the beginning and gather as much data as possible, although why not first establish whether our client was guilty or not?

Thinking of guilt, I thought back to my activity upstairs, prior to the interruption. I had been caught up writing a sort of a short narrative there but -- you should know that there are elements to this story that need to be clarified, otherwise none of this will make enough sense. Is it time for my confession now? No, I think will delay the inevitable some more.

Meanwhile, Virginia Seville told us the tragic, yet ordinary story of her engagement and perhaps it was my colorful imagination at work again, but I felt as if I wasn't the only one in the room who took comfort in its predictability.

She was the only child of a country squire, with a sizable yearly income. At eighteen, she became engaged to the son of a neighboring family, Jonathan Crawford. The marriage was just about to happen, but then Crawford was called to represent our homeland in the rough, but necessary, as I can myself vouch, Afghanistan campaign and the wedding was to be delayed. Unfortunately, Fate would have it that in the end, the wedding never took place as Miss Seville's fiancé died for his Queen and country in the very same battle I had myself sustained my injury, at the damned Pass of Maiwand.

Holmes glanced at me at the mention of the battle and then back to our lady caller. Given the mutual dislike that seemed to arise between me and Miss Seville upon the first minutes of our acquaintance, I restrained myself from interrupting her with my own experience of the battle.

Nonetheless, to you, my readers, I will make a mention of something, something quite important. As there are some patent similarities between Miss Seville's case and my own, I will take her mention of Afghanistan as a cue to reveal something quite relevant from my past. It was in this hot, indomitable and very, very foreign country that not only did I almost lose my life but where I was also led to question matters pertaining to the very core of my self.

On one of the long, red days there, I finally found a chance to sneak off and rest mercifully alone in an empty tent at the edge of our impromptu camp. I intended to sleep in order to recuperate from a full night's work of attending to the sick and wounded, but I simply could not get my brain to switch off.

I swear I was not looking for it. Out of boredom, I inspected my modest surroundings and came across a thin book sticking out from the personal belongings of the tent's usual inhabitant – Lieutenant Daniels, was it, I wondered then. We changed places so quickly I could not keep track of where everyone slept. The book that caught my attention had all the appearance of a diary and I know it is for this reason alone I should have stayed well clear of it ... but if I should be ever asked to name my weaknesses, curiosity would have to top the list.

Quickly, I reached for the book and flipped it open. To my surprise, I found that the words inside were printed, not handwritten. I was not invading anyone's privacy, after all, I thought in relief – until I registered the meaning of the sentences on the page. Amused more than anything else, I realized the thin volume contained a text of quite unabashedly pornographic nature. I skimmed across all the engorged members, luscious lips, wrinkled pink orifices and sticky white streams of life essence -- and then I realized something else, something that made my heart beat and my face suffuse with red. All the participants in the silly, exaggerated, but still undeniably fascinating sexual activities described in the book were male.

I had lived in the capital before and had not walked down the streets blind nor had I blocked my ears during certain late night conversations in the club, but this was the closest I had come in contact with the criminal underground of inverts. To hear glimpses of conversation and acknowledge these people walked among us ordinary citizens, mostly masked to the point of being unrecognizable, was one thing, but to read detailed descriptions of what might go on during their clandestine meetings ... that was a whole another matter.

I am ashamed to admit that back there, on the foreign soil of an unwelcoming country, in the shade and privacy of the tent, I felt somehow more justified to keep reading. Had I been at home, perhaps even under the roof of my parental house, I might have listened to my sense of decency more intently. But as it was, exhausted and disgusted by the perils of war as I had been, I gave in to the temptation and devoured the entire volume.

I allowed all the words and their reprehensible meaning flow into my brain and there form images that etched themselves into my mind so thoroughly that for several days which followed, I found myself unable to fall asleep without thinking of them, without picturing all that they described: the hot, sweaty skin, the soft, unseen hair, the strong muscles and growing arousals ... I was shocked, yes, but also intrigued. I wish I could say that in time, the images faded out on their own and were replaced, during my solitary self-servicing that now took place every night, by the luscious supple shapes of women, but in the end, they only subsided when overshadowed by an in-the-flesh experience.

It was with Lieutenant Daniels, the owner of the book himself, that I first dipped into the pleasures a man could bestow on another man. I can again protest that had it not been for the dire circumstances of war, where the gentle sex was rare and gentleness even rarer, I might never have pursued that hidden strain of my desires. But I know you might think me hypocritical if I protest too much, so I will refrain from it. These are the facts as they happened: I eventually found the courage to confront Lt. Daniels and, uprooted and weary as we both were, he did not relent for too long and confessed in me.

Thus, he was to become my first man, so to speak, this soft-spoken, solemn-faced boy from the green hills of Devon who somehow found himself commanding Indian soldiers in the Middle-East. I was flattered by his fumbling hands and jagged hot breath in the darkness; I greedily tasted the sweat on his neck and felt the as yet unfamiliar pressure of his arousal on my thigh --- But I know you have not come here to read about a forgettable and indeed, long forgotten English officer, or even one naive, eternally undecided army surgeon turned biographer: you've come here to read about Sherlock Holmes. It is the cross I have myself chosen to bear that what it always comes down to is that everyone wants to read about _him_.

So let's go back to him.

While I revisited the memories of blood and sand and the first time I had allowed another man to elicit wanton gasps from me, back in front of the crackling fire of Baker Street, _he_ was leaning back in his chair, his thin black hair swept immaculately from his face, a look of placid boredom on his features.

The plain-faced and ungraceful Miss Seville had finished her account of her fiancé's premature death and of other circumstances surrounding their respective families' ties and wealth, facts far too common and irrelevant to bear any mention.

“Miss Seville,” Holmes said, “it's time you told us of this alleged affair. Is there any truth to it?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

There was no fear or shame in her homely countenance, only defiance. “I won't deny it.” I watched her gather her embroidered handkerchief in her strong fingers and squeeze and twist it as if she could throttle the inevitable. "Do I have your promise that what I tell you never leaves this room?"

"You have our promise," Holmes said.

"Still, I must warn you, the affair is not of the usual kind."

"And which affair would be of the usual kind?" I asked her and earned myself a cold look.

"Please, do go on," Holmes said to her. "It's of the utmost importance that you are honest with me."

Virginia Seville sighed and told us the truth. I don't think it comes as much of a surprise to any of you that what was unusual about the affair in her case was that it involved another woman. Now, let me make something clear: here and there, I have heard claims that true intercourse between two females is impossible. I am frankly appalled that such laughable myths can exist in modern society and allow me to assure you that, speaking as both a medical man and a _man_ , it indeed _is_ very possible. So possible in fact, that others may become angered by it and, as in the case of Virginia Seville, stoop to writing threatening letters to the perpetrators of said supposedly impossible act.

"We had been friends since childhood," Virginia Seville shared the details about her paramour, "but we grew apart somewhat during our teens. But then Margaret's engagement failed and she was forced to return back home."

How dreadful to be someone's last resort, I thought.

As we learned, Miss Seville became romantically involved with none other than her fiancé's sister, Margaret Crawford. Following Miss Crawford's being abandoned by her husband-to-be for another, Miss Seville showered her with presents and affection, hoping to ignite a passion Miss Crawford had never been built for. Albeit reluctantly, Miss Crawford did eventually begin to reciprocate and the two women carried on like this for a while, in complete secrecy. Meanwhile, the marriage of Miss Seville to Jonathan Crawford was arranged by their parents and Miss Seville, hoping that she might at least ensure her continued closeness to Crawford's sister through the marriage, accepted. Then came the complications of the war, and at the same time, Margaret Crawford began to grow bored of her friend and became more demanding of her without giving much in return. Soon, Miss Seville's mother started to grow suspicious and in turn, Miss Seville became more and more desperate. And then the affair ended and there were tears and pleas and threats. Not long after that, the dead man's letter came, tearing away the scab from the wound of unrequited love as well as promising exposure and ruin.

Not a very enviable situation. My unfavorable first impression of Miss Seville notwithstanding, I felt deeply sorry for her.

But considering this is my story and I have some intentions as to its direction, I now propose to take a detour from Miss Seville's affair with a woman and tell you something of my affairs with men.

Back in Afghanistan, I had enjoyed a few more dalliances with Lt. Daniels, but then came Maiwand and the injury and then the blurry weeks of convalescence. When I found myself back home on the English soil, I thought for a moment I might leave what happened on another continent gather the dust of millenia there. But the confusion I felt after returning from the war – was I proud or ashamed, was I supposed to feel used or glorified – changed into careless indifference and there was not much else I could think of doing during those long months of lassitude other than picking up a boy and indulging in the Greek vice.

I had followed Daniels's advice (“No better place for us than the metropolis, my friend. You'll find it's much easier to find something once you know what you're looking for.”) and took to strolling down one of the main streets in London (those in the know are no doubt well aware which one). Leaning on my cane, I took my time and long before Holmes had a chance to expound on the topic, I did not look, but I  _observed_.

Sometimes it was a hit and sometimes it was a miss, but I learned to spot a certain sort of a young man, one who I could hope to take home with me. The kind who had a certain air of expectation about him, who walked slowly and smirked once you met his eyes. It proved to be simplicity itself to then address this young gentleman with an innocent topic - What nice weather, What horrid weather, etc. -  and see if he cooperated and allowed for more personal questions.Then we were only a cab ride away from entering his private quarters and doing something very pleasant and very criminal. Most servants seemed to be in on the game and would not dream of opening a bedroom door without knocking, but I am nothing if not disciplined and never forgot to take care and lock the door all the same.

I could never be sure whether the other party took as much enjoyment in our encounter as I did, but they certainly made it seem like they did and really, what was the difference? True, sometimes it took a dinner or an expensive present to get them to meet again, but I was in it for the fun, it wasn't as if I was scouting for a spouse to take the altar.

Needless to say, it was nothing short of remarkable how far and how quickly I had progressed from my disgust while reading Lt. Daniels's dirty book to readily practicing almost all that was contained within its pages. Those few months following my return from Afghanistan turned out to be the most promiscuous of my life. True, there had been a period in my youth when I became very closely acquainted with a pretty schoolmistress (young, but still not as a young as me and far too cheerful to spend her life lecturing in front of a blackboard) and I don't exaggerate when I say we made the beast with two backs up to three times per day, but still, that was only with one person.

Those months were a transitory period in my life and I knew it would have to end sometime. On the theoretical level, I began to contemplate finding a woman for a change - although for some reason I found the idea of a female prostitute more demeaning (to myself) and the idea of wooing a regular woman far too time-consuming and without the guarantee of returned investment, so to speak. On the practical level, I was running disturbingly low on money.

And then, Stamford introduced me to Holmes.

It has now become common knowledge how readily I accepted the offer of lodging with him and indeed, I was grateful for the opportunity.

Many things about Holmes had been a mystery to me when I first moved in with him, but some of them, such as his occupation, would soon be revealed. Others, however, remained hidden.

I am naturally referring to the question of whether he shared some of my baser inclinations or not. He was an exceedingly queer person, that much was clear. But whether the queerness included inverted desires, that was a question which baffled me for months.

Just for the sake of reiterating the obvious: I found Holmes extremely appealing from the start. He did not exactly look like one of the men I might approach in the street - he was a few years too old for that for one, and also, he was the sort of person you have to get to know in order to like. I'm not saying he wasn't quite as good looking as some of those men, but I hope you understand it as an implication.

Still, there was a certain intensity about him, not to mention his intelligence and the impenetrable strangeness of his character - and I must say I felt irresistibly drawn to him. And, as we tentatively laid down the foundations of our friendship, I could not help but wonder whether there was any chance of anything else. And on some days, as I observed him and compared the data with what I knew, I was almost completely certain there was.

And thus, a whole another game was afoot.

Naturally, I jotted my observations down:

 

Went to boarding school, reluctant to elaborate.

Went to a university, reluctant to elaborate.

Indifferent to and suspicious of women.

Comfortable in the company of men.

Deflects personal questions.

Shows interest in male anatomy.

Has some effeminate manners and some feminine features.

Very queer character.

 

Surveying the list, I had to laugh – how convincing it was! But there was one part of Holmes's method I had never managed to grasp and that was the evaluation of which facts were important and which were not. Many observations, even contradictory ones, could be made about one person. But how to determine which ones to draw an inference from?

I posed myself another topic: Evidence Holmes _is not._ I came up with a whole another list of opposing arguments and they were quite convincing too and so I tore them up. I didn't want him _not to be_ – and that was all there was to it. It had all been an exercise in tautology and I had only sought confirmation for my deviant thoughts. I was disgusted with myself and forbade myself to engage in any further secret investigation of Holmes's sexual preferences. He never did anything to encourage such thoughts and did not deserve my betraying his friendly trust in such an abhorrent manner.

How does a fellow keep himself occupied, though?

I had plenty to do in the day, but my nights became rather lonely. I had my last secret encounter with a man not long after I watched Holmes lock the handcuffs around the wrists of one Jefferson Hope. Since then I became far too busy assisting with Holmes's investigations, not to mention my growing obsession with observing his own person. And, to be fair and honest, I also feared discovery – or worse, a discovery without any confrontation, a mute acknowledgment of my perverse inclinations as a tolerable habit without any voiced surprise or revulsion, without any interest...

I was happy to see my friendship with Holmes burgeon – I could tell he was eager to impress me, grateful for my undivided attention, and that gave me great satisfaction – and I restrained my sexual thoughts to the confines of my own bedroom. I was getting a bit worried about my increased engagement in the solitary vice (sometimes it was as if I had suddenly de-aged 15 years) but otherwise, it was manageable.

Then, not too long before Miss Seville knocked on our door with her own tale of deviance, I had a small epiphany: How else to fill the long hours of the night when my mind swells with indecent images  than to find a more convenient venue for them? Preferably one that does not lead to any more besmirched handkerchiefs I am then forced to dispose of. I had always had quite a vivid imagination and a strong literary bent. So why not put my fantasies on paper? I would no longer be forcing my filthy thoughts on the person of Holmes himself, but rather only upon an idea of him, an idealized character I would create in my writing. No doubt it would take me some time to craft a story and this might sufficiently tire my mind and I might even start sleeping soundly again. 


	3. Chapter 3

So without any further ado and excuses, let me come clean and admit what I had been writing that night Holmes called for me to come attend to Miss Seville with him.

The truth is, I was writing a tale so personal, so sensational and so, so filthy, that I fear you might think less of me if I re-print here. In fact, I'm sure of it:

 

_I was at my wit's end considering the matter of my lost ~~watch~~ ~~dog wife necklace~~ and so I followed the advice of my friend and called one day on Mr. Sherlock Holmes, resident at 221B Baker Street. He came to the door himself and I immediately saw he was a handsome man. He was tall and rather striking, with sharp, but perfectly symmetrical features and the most soulful, beguiling eyes. He invited me in and I could not help but stare at the outline his thighs and buttocks made in the close-fitting trousers as he walked up the stairs into the drawing room. He turned to me and I quickly glanced up into his eyes, but not before I registered the noticeable swell in the area of his crotch. Either this is fake stuffing or this fellow is exceptionally well-endowed, I thought._

“ _Tell me, my boy,” he said, a soft smile playing on his beautifully shaped lips. “What have you really come here for?”_

_I swalloved. The intensity of his glare was making me uncomfortable. I felt the telltale signs of my own growing arousal and my mind drew a blank._

“ _What -” I stammered. “What do you mean?”_

“ _I was hoping,” replied Sherlock. “You have come here – for me.”_

_He closed the distance between us and kissed me, his tongue fighting its way into the territory of my mouth. After I recovered from the surprise, I eagerly reciprocated, running my hand through his thick lush hair. He was taller than me and I relished in the feeling of being held in his strong muscular arms, of being possessed by another man._

“ _How about -” he said between the kisses, “I take you to bed - and conquer - you - like India?”_

_I felt so excited about the prospect I could barely contain myself. I dropped down to my knees and feverishly unlaced Sherlock's fly and finally beheld his magnificent manhood. Thick and veiny, a beautiful and intimidating weapon. His balls were weighty and covered in soft black down and I caressed them as I struggled to contain his girth in my mouth. My eyes watered, but I held on as he thrust deep into my throat._

“ _That's right, John, attaboy,” he said, patting my head._

_I held onto his narrow hips and when he tried to pull away out of thoughtfulness, I forced him to stay in place and happily swalloved down all of his spent._

_He fulfilled his promise and took me to his bedroom then. It was rather nondescript and all that interested me anyway was the wide welcoming bed. Oh, to spend a whole afternoon frolicking in those starch white sheets!_

“ _You're the most handsome man in all of London, John,” he said as he tore off my waistcoat. “I would say in all of the world, but I have never set my foot outside of Britain.”_

_"We can go to France together this summer,” I suggested as I placed myself on the bed for him to ravish._

“ _That would be lovely,” he said and licked my spine all the way from my neck to my arsehole. His member had come to attention again. He spit into his hand and gave his own cock a few strokes. I had lifted myself on my elbows and turning my head, I watched him do it. He was now fully naked, his torso slender and well-defined. I wanted to bury my head in the dark tangle of hair in his crotch, to suck on his perfect nipples, to knead the soft skin of his buttocks. But there would be plenty of time for that later._

_Finally, he straddled be from behind and breached me in one deep, powerful thrust ---_

 

 

And that was the moment Holmes's “Watson!” stopped me from writing any further. I was forced to lay down my frivolous pen and go listen to the Sapphic escapades of the unpretty Miss Seville.

Let's all return to reality now and continue with the story as it really happened:

“So,” I said to Holmes, once I had seen Miss Seville to a cab that would take her safely to her hotel, “You have not said it outright, but I take it you have accepted the case?”

I liked to see his eyes alight when he was presented with a new conundrum, but this time, there were also deep worry lines etched into his forehead.

“I have accepted it,” he said and folded himself into the usual position in his armchair with his legs drawn up to his chin. “But the case itself is rather simple, isn't it?”

I sat down opposite him. I was determined to keep the matter strictly impersonal. “Well, of course, it's rather easy to guess someone else penned the letter – someone who either knew her fiancé closely or who had access to his letters to her ...” I continued in that line, listing Virginia Seville's mother, a sanctimonious servant or even the lover, Margaret Crawford, as possible suspects.

“That's correct, Watson,” Holmes said, thoughtful. “A child could solve the case. But why go all the way to London to me?”

I knew he knew the answer to that, too, but for one reason or another, he wanted me to say it. We were silent for a while. “Isn't it tragic,” I said at last. “To have no one to confide in? She obviously cannot tell her mother, nor her maid or even her ... doctor for fear of exposure. She has been rejected and ridiculed by the one person she thought was her dearest confidante and on top of it threatened by an anonymous blackmailer devious enough to turn her failure against her. To be so alone and desperate to go all this way just to be able to tell -someone- --”

“Desperate people often seek my help, that's true,” Holmes smiled wanly. “But what do you suggest I do? Find the sender? Risk ruffling the Seville and Crawford families' feathers even more? To what end?”

“If it were up to me,” I ventured. “I would advise her to just up and leave her family. Why lock yourself in a house with poisonous air? Of course, she would lose all her inheritance and risks falling into poverty. Unless she has any useful skills...”

“Oh,” he said. “You surprise me, Watson. I would have thought your advice would be far more – conservative.”

“That's because you made a conclusion about me before knowing all the facts,” I said, bold but grateful for the dim lighting. “We have never discussed this topic as far as I'm aware.”

He raised his eyebrows at me and then spread out his hands. ”Why, but by all means, discuss.” He let his feet drop to the carpet and turned to properly face me. “From what I have learned about you, my friend, I might not even guess you knew people like Miss Seville, people of inverted nature, existed.”

“Might not guess! Existed!” I was exasperated. He was teasing me and I did not know better than to fall for it. “Holmes, you really try my patience sometimes. You're forgetting I am doctor and a- a soldier and I have fought for this country and traveled half the world and seen things --- Of course I know people like this exist! Why, if you only knew-”

“If I only knew what?”

“If you only knew I – I-” It was now or never. I could not tiptoe around it any longer. Miss Seville's case of unfortune had paved the way for my own revelation. All evening, Holmes had not shown a hint of judgment about her actions and at least, I knew I could rely on his discretion. “If you only knew,” I repeated again to his quietly amused, expectant face. “I count myself among those who might occasionally seek the pleasures of the company of the same sex.”

“My dear Watson,” he told me, now fighting a grin, “I already know that.”

I sprang up from the armchair and crossed over to the window. I looked out at the darkened street with the occasional pools of yellow light. I felt cheated.

Holmes would not be deterred, though, he enjoyed these moments of revelation. And I usually enjoyed being his audience – only this time, I was also to be the subject of his explanation.

“I knew that on the first day I met you. Well, suspected. And once we had moved in together – where do you think I thought you spent some of your evenings? Always in your club? In a club where no one smoked and where you had to take off your waistcoat and then deliberately miss a button putting it back on? And what a roundabout route you took to that club, gathering on your shoes the peculiar sticky sort of mud particular to the area of - ”

“Alright, alright,” I glanced at him. I was angry, but in a way also relieved – there it finally was, the admission, the heavy boulder of a wearisome secret being lifted from my shoulders.

“And then,” he continued, his tone becoming more serious. “You stopped going. And – you turned your attention to me.”


	4. Chapter 4

I looked at him, at his tall, lean figure in the frayed dressing gown, at his sincere gray eyes and thin, pale face. I knew then that our flourishing friendship would end that night. It would be snipped in the bud and replaced by a far more complicated growth. What I did not know was that in time, this growth would become twisted, gnarled and monstrous and would have to be burned away drastically in order to allow for a new green sprig of hope. Had I known that, I might never have allowed matters to progress so far. But I'm getting ahead of myself here.

As expected, we did have our first time together that night – or to be precise, for the hour had advanced, that very early morning.

I will not describe it here, though, for it was, as most first times are, a bit lacking. I had been used to a different sort of a male partner, one who would let himself be seduced in the scope of several minutes and then readily shoulder most of the work, allowing me to reap the pleasures without much reciprocation. Holmes, on the other hand – and I would find this out much, much later, during one late night confession – had only ever been with one other man, a university fellow a number of years before, and had come to perceive sex as something that was done only as an extension of already existing affection, a kind of dirty afterthought gotten out of the way quickly and beneath as many covers as possible, as if the participants wanted to hide the act from themselves.

Due to these conflicting expectations and my eagerness to meet Holmes's demands, I earned myself a painful bruise on my shin from trying to cross Holmes's unfamiliar room in pitch black darkness and then barely contained laughter when I had to fight my way through a tangle of night shirts. (He had indeed insisted I change into a sleeping attire beforehand, and yes, I was as bemused as you are.)

Afterwards, when I awkwardly lifted myself from his narrow bed, trying not to kick or crush any part of him in the process, he caught my hand and whispered to me me, in an anxious, insistent voice, much different from any I have ever heard from him: “You must understand, this is very unusual for me.”

“Of course,” I said.

“And you must swear – swear you will never tell anyone. You mustn't tell, Watson!”

Yes, of course, thank you for reminding me. It was what I had been planning - right after I had freed myself from the sticky ruin of my night shirt, I would run all across the town to Scotland Yard and relate to Lestrade and Gregson some surprising news about their favorite consultant. The situation could not be more absurd, but Holmes, obviously more out of his depth than ever before, sought the reassurance of his only friend and now also partner in crime, and who was I to deny him that?

“Of course, rest assured, no one will ever know.”

The words on these pages are testament to the fact that I had in fact lied to him then, but for a very long time after that crisp, faintly sunlit morning, not a soul knew. Sometimes, I even doubted whether I knew myself, for Holmes proved quite masterful in acting during the day as if it had been a different man altogether who had kissed and fucked me in the night, a man he was only perfunctorily acquainted with and a man he mostly disapproved of.

There had not been much time left for sleep that day and soon, we found ourselves dressed and proper and on the way to call on Miss Seville with Holmes's advice. Comparing the handwriting in her dead fiancé's letter with those of the possible suspects would be the easy part, making the decision about her own future would be much more difficult – and all up to her.

But I know I should go back to Holmes and what transpired between us next. Well, many things happened. Something ended, something began and something remained the same. But really, I would be doing a disservice to this first, fragile stage of our intimate relationship, a relationship so precariously built that it would be well on its way to self-destruction within a year, if I did not mention any of our nightly encounters in more detail.

It had not been the first time that was memorable for the right reasons, or even the second or the third. If I'm counting right - and I could be wrong for it's been many years - it was the eighth:

This time, we were upstairs in _my_ bedroom and he stayed my hand when I reached for the wheel of the oil lamp.

“No. I want to see what you look like underneath all those clothes.”

I had so adjusted myself to the routine of "lights off and slip into bed" that I had started to pretend there was no other way to do it. While I recovered from the shock of the novelty, Holmes started unbuttoning his shirt.

I followed his example. He was looking at me as he worked on his own clothes, his head cocked, a shy, but also daring look in his gray eyes. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and I could finally take a good look at him.

He was too thin, there was no other way to put it. The bones on his shoulders stood out and so did his ribs. He did have a nicely shaped upper body, a rather broad frame tapering into a slim waist, but it was as if someone had forgotten to put enough filling into it.

The muscles of his upper arms were very nicely contrasted by his gentler, sparsely haired forearms and long, elegant fingers. Blue veins stood out on the top of his hands and on his wrists, giving the impression of precision and delicacy. His body had all the appearance of the perfect economical machine where every part was designed for its specific purpose and there was no place for any excess.

A smattering of black hair spread across his chest and I spotted a barely visible line of hair that led down across his stomach, disappearing in his trousers. Looking up at his neck, I recalled there had once been a fad when ladies would paint veins on their necks to exaggerate their translucent paleness – well, had Holmes been a lady, he would have had no need to mar his skin for fashion, his skin being so very pale and so tight-fitting all on its own. His exposed throat was beautiful, white and sharp and I could not wait to put my lips and teeth to it.

I would lie if I said I noticed no flaws: there was the tiny layer of padding at the sides of his waistline, the almost unnoticeable detraction from the saint-like, austere gauntness of his figure. There were some blemishes on his skin in some places and later, when I had the full view of the top of his head, I confirmed my suspicion his hair was really far too thin for his age.

It was just like Holmes to take things to an extreme, though, and dutifully undressing in front of each other as we were, he started to remind me of a patient in front of a doctor. A naughty patient, true, and a doctor of questionable methods who undressed as well, but still, it was getting a bit too clinical, what with me inspecting all he had to offer. And of course, he had to be subjecting me to his own special brand of critical gaze as well.

I cut the suspense short by kissing him, taking care to make it count. I tasted the bitterness of smoke in his mouth and enjoyed the way I had to bend my chin upward - to this day, I still not have gotten enough of the simple fact that Holmes is taller than me. Pressing my naked chest against his, I could feel the heat and pulse of his body. I put my hand on the nape of his neck and held him close. His body may have been thin and have the look of pristine delicacy, but there was strength in every muscle and sinew and I knew we were only beginning to test each other as to when one of us liked a softer touch and when one preferred a more powerful grip.

He dug his fingers into my shoulders, gasping into my mouth, and with my left hand I set to work on undoing our trousers. I finally pushed them down off his hips along with the white underwear. We broke the kiss and stepped out of our shoes, kicking off the rest of our clothing. I could finally see all of him. I was quite taken aback by the promise of the intimate knowledge this would grant me. How delightful to be fully bared like this with someone who's character one already knows! And how delightful for that someone to be Holmes, the man who had commanded my unwavering attention for months, a man I thought I could never grow bored of.

The faint line of hair traveling across his stomach led into a nice black bush above his cock. His member itself was at half-mast, the foreskin pulled back to reveal a pink head glistening with the droplets of pre-release. His long legs were thin and sinewy, with a modest covering of black hairs. The definition of his calves was negligible, his ankles thin and veiny just like his hands. I lifted my eyes back to his cock – as I had already discovered, it was just the right size for my mouth and I hoped that tonight, we might test its compatibility with other parts of me as well.

Clearly just as fascinated with what I had to display to him, Holmes pushed me down on the bed and got between my legs to attend to my own arousal. I watched him do it, close his eyes, frown in concentration. He is the opposite of me both in the built of his body and the structure of his face. Unlike me, he is of the high-cheekboned, sharp-featured kind and it was quite the sight to observe the obscene bulge of my own cock in his hollow cheeks.

Had I known then the name of Holmes's first lover, I might have been obliged to write him a letter of thanks for teaching Holmes to swallow without hesitation and as a matter of fact, without a second thought or the slightest hint of distaste. All those bad habits of hiding in the darkness had already been easily untrained, so only praise should be given for the one who initiated Holmes into the subtle art of licking his lips instead of wiping at them with his hand.

I could not contain myself anymore and had to launch for those indecent lips again. I drew him into a long, deep kiss. He raised himself up onto the bed, straddling me. His cock bobbed between our stomachs, but instead of giving it the desired friction, I told Holmes of my special plans for it.

I pushed him off me and went to get the lubricant. He watched me from the bed, his breathing ragged and the color so high in his cheeks it created red splotches on his beautiful neck and chest. He looked irresistibly wanton and wanting and I could not wait for him to experience this new kind of pleasure. I poured a generous measure of the oil into my palm and covered his hard length in it. It took a few comical second to negotiate the best position, but we were both far too gone to laugh about it.

It was a bit too rushed to be truly pleasurable from the start, but the initial pain was soon replaced by the exquisite feeling of being joined, of being filled, of being fucked.

Needless to say, the eighth time was much better than the first. We had already broken the ice and while there was still some tentativeness between us (and it was doomed to remain there for years, a certain awkwardness of feeling, a hint of pretentiousness – but again I am getting ahead of myself), we now acted with a clear goal in our minds and no longer doubted each other's depth of involvement. And at the end of it, when we relaxed shoulder to shoulder before parting, Holmes did not even feel the need to implore me to keep silent about it.

 


End file.
